Widgett was a journalist and art critic, addicted to a greenish-gray tweed suit and “art” brown ties; he smoked corncob pipes in the Avenue on Sunday morning, travelled third class to London by unusual trains, and openly despised golf. "You can shave him, you know. This is altogether insupportable. He uttered a deep groan, but said nothing. ‘I’ve finished me report, sir,’ Trodger said aggrievedly. A deep roar followed this order, and several missiles were launched at the vehicle, which was driven off at a furious pace. There were neither texts nor rubbish on the walls, but only a stirring version of Belshazzar’s feast, a steel engraving in the early Victorian manner that had some satisfactory blacks.
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